


For Want of a Nail

by Kidwrangler



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AU, Clint Barton-centric, Clint has his own rules, Clint is recruited for SHIELD, Dark Clint--sort of, Phil has rules for Clint, Rated for Clint's language, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-11 01:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10451811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kidwrangler/pseuds/Kidwrangler
Summary: Moral compass:  a person's ability to judge what is right and wrong and act accordingly.Clint's has been broken practically since birth.It doesn't bother him.





	1. Growing Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's childhood was not the best. This didn't keep him from amusing himself as he grew up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of Marvel's intellectual property. This story is for amusement only. Any similarities between this story and any other stories is completely coincidental.

It's not a lack of empathy, it's a fucking survival skill. His male chromosome donor--to call the man Father is fucking ridiculous--beat that into him early. You wanna survive the baseball bat, the broken bottle, the lamp cord, the calloused fist, you better think of yourself first. It’s reinforced by his brother, Barney, who sometimes hugs him and  sometimes smacks him without a way to predict which would happen. He’s surprised to realize he’s angry his father killed himself in that car crash. Clint was hoping he would be able to do that himself to good old Dad. Maybe using that cigarette lighter his dear father is so fond of. His mother? Well, she did try to protect him, but if she really wanted to take care of him she should have taken him and run. So her dying in that car accident was really her own fault.

Then there were the fucking round of foster families and orphanages. Adults patting him on the head and explaining how good boys share, good boys don't steal, good boys don't make other boys cry. Fuck that. What is his is his, and sometimes that meant defending his possessions...creatively. And if they had something he wanted, well, it was obvious it should be his. It isn't selfishness if he isn't interested in sharing. 

The circus. Barney’s big fucking idea. Three meals a day and free transportation--except for Clint. Already undersized for his age he discovers work-for-food only works for people who are a lot bigger than he is. Borderline starvation doesn't give his body much to grow on. 

Quite by accident he discovers the power of body language. Getting up after having been kicked into the mud by a grinning roustabout, it’s all he can do to stop himself from charging the much larger man. The roustabout grins and flips off an incandescent Clint, leaving the boy trembling, fists at his sides, eyes narrowed. Little Lisa wanders out from behind the fat lady’s tent and sees Clint standing in the mud, clothes filthy, glaring. 

She touches him gently on the arm. “Don't cry, Clint. He isn't worth it. Come back with me. Have you had lunch? You can get cleaned up a bit and I’ll warm up some chicken and dumplings.”

Crying? He wasn't crying. Crying was useless. But on the other hand, hot chicken and dumplings.

He starts watching the marks; sorry, _customers._

He learns to smile with his eyes as well as his mouth. How he can show amusement, fear, sadness, just by moving his eyebrows, tilting his head. Shoulders, arms, even hands and feet can be used to mimic emotions he can use to manipulate the people around him. He still doesn’t eat his fill, but he does better than starving. 

Then there’s Trickshot. The lead archer is crazier than a mean drunk on lead moonshine. Fucking old man jealous Clint can do better in a month with a bow than Trickshot would be able to do if he practiced for the rest of his life.

Manipulation doesn’t work on the psycho so Clint moves directly to retaliation. At first he’s clumsy; it’s too easy to track an incident back to him and punishment can be brutal. But he improves. He learns people look up last when searching, and how to use high places to his advantage. How to balance, move, carry, jump; up so high no one could catch him, even if they saw him.

The high wire and the trapeze. He learns how to use his body, his eyes, air currents, to figure angles at lightening speed. To intersect the moving parabola of the trapeze with a standing target, and later a moving one.

Simply taking his revenge on people on his list isn’t as fun as it had been-- _just pranks_  he’d claim, _Sorry_ faced--but now he has a new game: how close can he get an arrow to a tormentor without causing serious injury, while claiming it was a practice misfire. Trickshot thought beating him would _improve_  his aim, but Clint’s aim is already perfect.

He was considering what he might want to do after he left the circus, but his shitty brother fucked that up, too. Beaten and left for dead after he demanded a cut of the money Barney and his little gang were skimming, taken to the hospital by a good Samaritan. He never does get his full height, uses his smaller size and _Weepy Frightened_ ~~~~ ~~~~face to deflect the whole bill issue, and then disappears as soon as he can walk and breathe. It isn't like the hospital needs his money. He’s sure they make more than enough to cover his needs.

He does this and that. Saves his money. Learns how to make himself invisible in a crowd. Pickpocketing is too easy, so he starts setting up little games for himself. How many pockets can he go through sequentially? How about two at the same time, one in each hand? The calluses from archery deaden some of his finger sensation, but he learns to accommodate.

Finally, he can afford a decent bow. He randomly rotates through his city bolt holes, finding time and space to practice. It's a while before he gets the calluses toughened back up, but his aim only takes one quiver.

A message passes through several people, inviting him to discuss possible employment. He isn't stupid. There are casual murmured answers to odd questions. Trailing people who ought to know better. Observation from third story rafters. He’s interested, not impressed with the quality of the inquiring group, but everyone starts somewhere. He’s questioned: does he understand what they are paying him for? He shrugs. He knows he looks younger than he is; takes full advantage of the misperception.

The first one is a rival drug supplier. Clint waits, but he feels nothing. Okay, then. Looks like he found himself a job.

Eventually, the nominal head of the group paying Clint for assassinations annoys him, and after playing a rousing game of how close can he get an arrow to various minions, he kills them all, leaving an arrow in the leader’s eye--his calling card.

He likes self-employment. He can choose his marks without some whiny dipshit riding in his back pocket. He investigates Mexico, then Canada, then England. Wanders a bit around South America. Occasionally things go tits up and he has to go to ground until he's well enough to be able to keep himself protected outside a safe house, but he looks on the forced inaction as a reason to study the operation and puzzle out where things went wrong. Then he trains until he's sure he won’t make that mistake again, and kills everyone involved in fouling up his plan. A dead body with an arrow in the eye means _don't fuck with me_  and people learn to respect it.

Back in the States he takes a job now and then, depending on the mark and how bored he is. He’s enjoying some down time skiing when a hint of a breath of a rumor floats his way. He tracks it back carefully, silently, a micro-thin line of bare thought, to a filament of rumor, to a thread of possibility, to a string of confirmation. SHIELD. 

Investigation doesn’t tell him much. In his circles everyone has a different idea of what it is: secret society running everything behind the president, murder for hire, some version of the mafia, spies, insurance investigators, undercover FBI. Whoever they are it becomes obvious they want Clint.

Too fucking bad.

He has plenty of money; he doesn’t need to work for a while. He invents new games to amuse himself. The younger people he finds canvassing the area around one of his safe houses are pitiful; stomping through yards, rattling doorknobs, loud and self-important people who couldn't sneak up on someone if given slippers. Dropping little things on their heads is pretty amusing. Who can resist an acorn, a pebble, a handful of water, whatever he finds in the environment. He grins at the memory of a bird shit bomb. It almost makes up for having to abandon the safe house. And he’s always liked those curtains.

The young people, _agents_  is whispered, start aging into older, more experienced, better trained people. Another safe house is burned. Annoyed, he moves from pine cones to slashed tires, from pebbles to crumbling pieces of old buildings, a small incendiary pod under the engine of one of those black SUVs.

But there’s a man he can’t get rid of. Slight, balding, high quality clothes. He just trails along after Clint, seemingly happy to let Clint do whatever he wants. Always equitable, never losing his temper, even after Clint rigs an apartment fire hose to drench the Suit with a burst of high pressure water from the roof. Laughing, Clint peers over the edge of the apartment roof to see how much damage he's done and is surprised when Suit waves at him. 

That's a sign he’s spent too long here and should move on. He hasn’t tried panning for gold yet.

But he sticks around. It wouldn't be fair to all those hard working people if he just disappears. No, he needs to think of something big; something that will give these morons the metaphorical finger and say “here was Clint Barton” before he leaves for something more interesting. It takes some thought.

He finally decides on a Rube Goldberg device. He's always enjoyed building a run, the many odd pieces working together to cause something at the end to happen. His mostly blew up and caught fire at the end, so he couldn't use them more than once, but who was interested in doing the same thing twice?

He gathers marbles, steals some children’s games with gears, model watermills, some dominoes, a lot of the thinnest fishing line he can find, one metal pie plate, a dog leash, two Barbie dolls, some wooden train tracks, the lightest grade available motor oil, garden hose, an electrical wire he can strip and leave live, and other things as he decides he needs them.

He’s stringing the fishing line between buildings and having great fun. Raining wet, oily marbles on the Brainless Bastards, and then electrifying the entire mess was going to be glorious; he’s picked up marbles of different sizes for maximum chaos, but is particularly fond of the smaller ones.

A quick look around and he jumps over the edge of a building, fishing line in his teeth, one hand on the raised brick for balance as he sweeps his legs over and catches the drain pipe he’s prepared-- one of many he’s lightly sanded and rough painted to minimize damage to his hands. One more quick look around and he slides down the pipe to see Suit step out of a shadow that doesn’t look big enough to hide a four year old. His feet hit the ground but he’s too close to to the wall to grab his bow off his back. He reaches for his knife and Suit snatches out a gun and shoots him in the leg before he barely touches it.

He knows what being shot feels like, he’s had to clean his wounds, but there is a degree of shock from the unexpectedness as well as the punch through his thigh. He’s pulling the knife from its scabbard when Suit smiles and gently offers to shoot his other leg if he doesn't hold his hands out to the sides.

Well, shit.


	2. Welcome to SHIELD, Mr. Barton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is introduced to Agent Coulson. Clint figures this is a big scam, but can't figure out the payoff yet.

Suit belongs to SHIELD. The letters stand for something but he can’t be bothered to remember. He’s cold in the interrogation room; he’s been efficiently stripped, searched, bandaged, refused what the doctors claimed was pain medication, and given paper pants and booties to wear. His chair is metal and welded to the floor, his wrists handcuffed, one to each side of the table--not so far apart as to be too uncomfortable, but too far apart to do much--the cuffs strong and the keyhole covered with a slide of metal. A lap belt stretches firmly across his upper thighs.

He starts out humming to himself, and when that gets boring he sings every dirty song he can remember. The circus didn't care if he learned to read and write beyond what was needed to run a concession stand, but he’d learned a shitload of dirty songs. When that doesn’t get a response he takes to chanting “coffeee!” 

It takes about 45 minutes from humming to chanting for Suit to amble into the room, a cup of coffee in one hand, a folder in the other.

“I am Agent Coulson,” the man announces.

“Cool!” Clint says, using _Grateful_  and _Abashed_ face, focusing on the coffee. “Undo one of my hands and…”

“I’m not undoing one of your hands, Mr. Barton.”

“You’re going to hold it up for me? Kinky, but doable.”

Suit, _Coulson,_ sits down on the other side of the table. “The coffee isn’t for you.” Suit rummages in the folder and pulls out a sheet of paper, sipping at the coffee.

“So you're going to just let it sit there and smell great, and I should have a cup of coffee because I really want one and you won't give it to me?” _Dickhead_  he adds silently.

Suit pauses, apparently thinking. “That is correct. This is, after all, an interrogation room. Think of it as torture by lack of caffeine.”

Clint subsides, sitting back as far as he can without pulling on his wrists, _I am Not Pleased With You_  face firmly in place.

“Clinton Francis ‘Hawkeye’ Barton of Waverly, Iowa. Both parents dead, brother Charles Bernard 'Barney’ Barton. Wanted for a string of robberies in which security guards were severely injured, location unknown at this time.” He looks up. “We could find him if he were important, but common robberies are not our forte.”

Clint isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say to that. Barney was Barney. If he was stupid enough to be identified while robbing whatever, it isn't Clint’s fault. Of more concern is how Suit has gotten his hands on his personal information. 

“Ran away from the orphanage to the circus with your brother after being returned from several foster homes for difficulties ranging from stealing to torture of younger children.”

“It wasn't torture,” Clint says reasonably, “they just didn't know how to take a joke.”

Suit frowns. “Tying a six year old’s hands behind his back, his feet together, then hanging him upside down by the rope between his ankles on the top bunk bed post was a joke?”

“Well, yeah. He’d been reading about Harry Houdini, so I thought it would be a good joke to hang him upside down; like the picture of the water tank escape. Besides, the book was mine. He took it when I left it on the sofa to go get a drink.”

Coulson stares. He doesn't look like he understands the joke.

“The book was _mine,”_ he repeats slowly, using face, eyebrows,  and head tilt _I_   _Don't Understand The Problem, But That's Okay,_ _I_   _Guess._ He’s proud of that one. It had taken a lot of practice to combine several expressions.

A pause and Suit continues. “Suspected in 17 murders.” He pauses again. “All murders consisting of apparently precisely placed arrows.”

 _Apparently?!_ They were exactly where he wanted them to be.

Suit clasps his hands together and rests them on the sheet of paper. Making sure he has eye contact he says, “Mr. Barton. You have two choices. We had originally thought we could offer three, but the third had to be withdrawn. Your first choice is to work for SHIELD under strict supervision, with the possibility of become a functional and trusted agent of this agency.”

Clint grimaces. Sounds like indentured servitude to him. “And the second?”

“You will disappear, never to be seen again. This choice is regretfully permanent. Fatally so.”

“You can't do that!”

“Yes, Mr. Barton, we can. As you can imagine, it isn't a choice we offer lightly.”

Clint stews angrily. Big choice here: live under whatever fucking rules these shitheads come up with and work towards escaping Big Brother, or whatever execution style these shitheads like. There’s a possibility he could escape during his pre-execution party, but he doesn't know the layout or how many shitheads are between here and outside. He’s pulled off similar escapes before, but he doesn't like the odds. Better to hang around and build up information before trying.

He makes to cross his arms and forgets his wrists are bolted down, jerking the tender skin. “Fine, oh great and powerful Overlord," he spits. “Where’s my bow?” he adds, so furious it was a good thing he’s restrained or _Agent Coulson_ would be a smear on the walls.

“A beautiful weapon,” Suit says appreciatively. “It’s safely stored, unstrung for now. No one can touch it without my knowledge.” He tidies his folder, drinks the last of his coffee, and stands up. “Good choice, Mr. Barton. I hope you learn to enjoy your time with SHIELD.”

 _Like_ _I'd_ _learn to enjoy swimming with razor blades,_ Clint thinks, sneering. Coulson was at the door when Clint asks, voice tight with rage, “What was option three?”

Suit looks over his shoulder. “We had thought to arrange for you to meet with a disgruntled employer or two, sans weapons and suitably impaired, of course, but it was judged to have too high of a risk factor for your escape. And,” he adds, “all of the associates we could locate made it very clear they wanted nothing to do with you. Something about an arrow in the eye.” He opens the door to show three armed guards in the hallway. “Have a good evening, Mr. Barton.” 


	3. Coulson's Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson takes a hand in integrating Clint with SHIELD, and introduces the first of Coulson's Rules.

SHIELD is the opposite of fun; fitted with an ankle bracelet that gives escalating electrical shocks the longer he works on getting it off, shocks if he goes somewhere they don’t want him to be, shocks if he breathes wrong. The damn thing stops when he gives up for a time, then starts over again the next time he tries. His insides should look deep fried by now. Accompanied by “agents,” supposedly to show him where things were in this hellhole, it becomes obvious he has gotten complacent with his skill as an archer and let his hand-to-hand go. So far, no matter who he has attacked, what trick he’s used, how friendly and charming he pretends to be, what he steals from the cafeteria, any physical confrontation results in quick and painful contact with the floor. 

Once a week or so he’s escorted to the Suit’s office. Suit opens a file, studies the top piece of paper and looks at him. Each meeting he’s asked the same questions: is there something he has found he’s interested in, is there anything he needs, is he ready. He gives the same answers: _fuck you, my bow, fuck you._  

“Mr. Barton. An admirable attempt, but, as you discovered, the anklet works even if you ride on the top of the elevator. Have you found something you’re interested in? Is there anything you need? Are you ready?”

“Mr. Barton. Using ventilation ducts is not new, although I’m impressed you fit in them. Have you found anything you’re interested in? Is there anything you need? Are you ready?”

“Mr. Barton. There are always agents working the night shift. Have you found anything you’re interested in? Is there anything you need? Are you ready?”

“Mr. Barton. Interesting use of a spoon. Have you found anything you’re interested in? Is there anything you need? Are you ready?”

He thinks about it. It _is_ possible to die of boredom.

“Mr. Barton. Agents do not respond well to food fights.”

Yeah, okay. That had been painful.

“Have you found anything you’re interested in? Is there anything you need? Are you ready?”

He’s finally run out of patience. “I'm interested in getting out of this asshole place, I need my bow, and am I fucking ready for _what!”_

Coulson just barely dips his chin; like he’s looking over reading glasses. “To take advantage of the skills you can learn here. To teach your skills to people training here. To finish growing up.”

“Fuck you!”

Eventually, having cursed Suit in every language he knows, and in some languages where curse words are all he knows, he agrees to sit in on a couple of language courses. It’s that or strangle himself with his own socks.

And he’s good at them. Learning more than the basic swear words lets him put together longer and more creative insults.

***

The first time he calls the man Coulson instead of Suit, the agent stands up, tugs on his jacket to settle it, tells the babysitter of the day he can take a break. “Mr. Barton and I will be going to the range to check on his bow.”

The first time he sullenly admits learning to fly had been something he’d planned on later in his assassin career, Coulson gives him a quiver of arrows and watches him shoot. 

“Impressive, Mr. Barton.”

He’s appalled to discover he’s _pleased_ with Coulson’s comment.

***

He goes on small, easy missions in country, always accompanied by a babysitter and some sort of restraint. The first time he’d tried to run the fucking ankle bracelet pricked him, he was out cold before he got more than a couple of yards away and woke up in medical sicker than he could remember being since the circus. Coulson was watching him, hands clasped behind his back. Once Clint’s eyes focused, Coulson walked away. The second time he barely made it to the next roof; woke up in medical sicker than a dog and with gravel rash on his face, Coulson watching him, looking somehow disappointed.

The missions get more independent, longer, more dangerous. His babysitters disappear without warning, the ankle restraint falls off. He’s sent overseas. He brings in a Russian Black Widow named Natasha Romanov instead of shooting her. Loses most of his hearing in a too close explosion; learns how to balance and to understand what unfamiliar people are saying while using hearing aids. And each time he comes back, there is Coulson:  cleaned up, paperwork in hand, looking like he hadn’t spent the last day in a water feature in Disneyland monitoring Clint, waiting for Clint to say he has the shot.

One day, reviewing his schedule, making a note to check Danson’s firing stance, confirming his time for the obstacle course, sighing at his daily physical skirmish with Natasha, he realizes he’s been _domesticated._ He hasn’t thought of escaping this new life of his in more than a year.

He blames Coulson.

***

He still meets with Coulson once a week; more often if it can be proven he’s the one behind whatever has happened.

“Barton. What is the rule about baby agents?”

“Which one?”

“The armament one.”

“No live armaments shall be used on baby agents. This includes but is not limited to any projectiles you can think of, any objects with sharpened blades you can think of, anything I can throw, anything that can explode, and Natasha,” he recites in a sing-song voice.

“So why did you think slipping a hot penny down D’Larr’s shirt in bomb disarmament and telling him sparks set his shirt on fire would be a good idea?”

“Aw come on! It was hilarious! He stopped, dropped and rolled...on the penny! And he’s a self-important moron. He just doesn't know how to take a joke.”

Coulson closes his eyes briefly. “We are adding fire, anything intended to be set on fire, and anything that mimics fire.”

“It was a joke!” he repeats, _What Is the Problem_ face followed immediately by _Emotionally Hurt_ and a touch of _You’re Annoying Me._ He’s getting better at stringing faces one after another without an awkward pause.

“Don’t think to me in that tone of voice. It was not funny. The general rule about agents and your perception of their attitude or skill level?”

“Just because I don't like someone is not sufficient reason to make their life miserable.” He scowls. That’s one of the more  asinine rules.

***

Coulson adds rules as he thinks appropriate. Rigging the serving bin of mashed potatoes to explode was bad, even though it was only a little explosion and not specifically aimed at a baby agent. Taan’s face had been the funniest thing he’d seen all week. Okay, the potatoes were hot, but Taan had taken his favorite range time.

Coulson adds no using hot food as a weapon against fellow agents.

There seem to be a lot of rules.

***

He recounts some of his funnier pranks to Natasha and finds a willing partner.

Coulson wants him his office.

“Barton. What is the Natasha rule?”

“Um...there are a lot of those. Don't move anything in her quarters? Don't try to out drink her? Don't replace the sport drink in her sport bottle with orange pop because she hates orange pop? Never let her and agent Fisher be in the same room at the same time? Never ever let anyone know she loves old Westerns? Don't allow her to handcuff me for lockpicking practice? Um, don't allow her to throw knives at the baby agents to...wait a minute. That might fit under the general rule for using live--”

Coulson interrupts. “How about the one where all new skills have to be vetted by me first.”

“This is about the butter ball catapult, isn't it. I swear--I only built it. I didn't do any firing. Tasha hardly needed any help to learn how to aim it.”

“What about ‘don’t encourage Natasha to join in any non-work related activities that have the potential to harm’.”

“Oh. Yeah. That one. It was a pretty small catapult, really, and butter bombs in the macaroni and cheese could only improve the flavor. If Caparo and Finly had been watching what was going on they wouldn’t have slipped on the butter balls that ended up on the floor. Too bad you didn’t see the looks on their faces when their asses hit the linoleum!”

“Not funny, Barton. They could have been injured.”

“Then they’d make lousy agents, wouldn't they.” He puts on _Pouting_ face. “It was just a prank, sir. And Finly drank the last cup of coffee in the third floor break room. You know that’s the best coffee in the building and I wanted some.”

Coulson takes a deep breath. “Need I remind you about the attitude perception rule? Again?”

“No, sir.” 

“Butter balls?”

“We couldn't find any plastic wrap to hold the cooking oil.”

Coulson lets out a tiny sigh. “Of course. Makes perfect sense.” He pauses. “No building devices that can be used against fellow agents. This includes but is not limited to teaching Romanov, providing schematics verbally or written to Romanov, encouraging Romanov, discussions--both real and hypothetical--of where materials can be located, and declaring the activity is a training exercise.”

He tries _Sheepish_ face, followed by  _I_ _Have_   _a_ _Great Idea!_  “Hey! How about if we have a contest where people have to catch butter bombs on their bread and the one with the most catches, I don’t know, maybe gets to pick out the ice cream flavor for lunch! As long as it isn't pistachio. I hate pistachio.”

“No.”


	4. More Rules and Welcome to the Avengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson continues making rules and then introduces Clint to the Avengers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! For some reason I posted two of the same chapter and not the fourth and fifth. Sigh. It is to be hoped I have things in order now.

SHIELD is still a load of crap, but it’s crap that not only sanctions murder, even if he doesn’t get to choose who, but makes sure he has the best weapons to do it. Torture sucks, kidnapping sucks, drugging sucks, SHIELD medical goes beyond sucks. Marking a few of the terrorists, the child slavers, the drug runners, the political manipulators, with an arrow in the eye would remind those people they're up against Hawkeye. 

No arrows in the eye--at least not left there, turns out to be another rule. So is no setting up other agents so they wind up in whatever shit, mud, feral animals, giant spider webs, slimy molds or other disgusting materials are around--including but not limited to anything else Coulson can think of. No screwing around with, moving items in, pranking or escaping medical. Yes, even if Natasha is there.

“No dropping on, jumping out at, sneaking up on, or otherwise startling or frightening Stark.”

“It was a joke!”

“Dr. Banner had to get an emergency oxygen tank. Stark has a heart condition. You know this.”

“Okay. No Stark.  I’ll stick to the others.”

“No. And there’s a difference between being charming and using charm to make Agent Betroski feel threatened into dating you.”

“Aww, sir, I don’t need to threaten anyone to get a date!” _You’re_  a  _Guy, You Know How It Goes_ wink and wiggle eyebrows with a little smile.

“I’m sure you don’t. Do not approach Agent Betroski again.”

_Sorry But Not Really_ eye roll. “How about I go apologize to Susan. I’m sure I can explain I didn't mean to make her feel threatened.”

“No.”

The proliferation of Coulson’s rules seriously cramps his style.

***

Avengers.

What a fucking stupid name.

Costumes. And one flying robot only a paint chip away from becoming New York’s flashiest fucking firework. And a guy who thinks he’s a god and dresses like he’s from a cosplay contest.

The big green orc is cool. He’s got the right attitude--smash whatever gets in his way.

Stark, the self-professed genius, is a moron with no sense of self-preservation, but makes the best weapons. The bows are works of art. The arrows are fucking amazing.

“No shooting arrows, or anything else, at your team.”

“Have you tried hanging around with Rogers? He’s the most sanctimonious prick ever defrosted.”

“No shooting at team members.”

“It was a joke! I missed! On purpose!”

“No.”

***

Aliens? Fucking aliens? In New York? And unlike the movies he likes these aren't interested in talking with them or eating them. Don’t seem to have any motivation beyond destruction, but whoa, they have _flying scooters._ Maybe he could take one when this was all over. After he got better arrows from Stark. Only the explosive ones do shit against flying armored reptile...things, and he’s running low.

That shit Loki stuffs his brain with fucking orders. Not that he’d mind shooting that motherfucker Fury any other time, but he hates being _ordered._ He’d have killed the I’m-better-than-you bastard if Loki hadn’t been screwing around with his aim. Natasha knocks the fucking alien out of his head by giving him a concussion. Painful but effective. They have a silent agreement: where one goes the other does, too. Saved each other more times than he’s interested in counting.

Stark closes the portal these things are coming through with the nuke fired at Manhattan. Blows up the portal, blows up Stark, Stark isn't as dead as he should be, nobody seems to be worried about any radiation shit that might have come through as the portal was closing. 

Coulson’s dead. He isn't sure how he feels about that. Coulson was a friend, his handler, the maker and enforcer of rules he has to admit have made it easier to pretend to be like everyone else. Clint wonders if he can get the jar of peanut M&Ms Coulson hid in his desk for Clint. They’re his favorite.

He decides he’s angry, but doesn't know what to do about it. Sometimes he’s angry at Loki for killing Coulson, sometimes he’s angry at Coulson for dying before Clint can get a flying scooter, because if anyone could have requisitioned a flying scooter it would have been Coulson.

Fury wants them to live together so it's easier for the bastard to spy on them. It’s what he and Natasha would do. Stuffy Steve agrees it would be good for team practice and bonding. Clint is briefly confused about “bonding.” He thinks that's what epoxy does; realizes Stuck Up Steve means getting everyone to work as a group instead of a bunch of overpowered morons who don't watch what anyone else is doing. Clint suggests a five star hotel with room service and an on site masseuse. Stark says his Tower has an infinite number of stars and they can each have their own floor. Not their own room or apartment, but an entire _floor._ He glances at Natasha; she’s suspicious, too, but signals it's worth checking out.

This is closer to what Clint envisioned for his life: A bottomless credit card he doesn't have to pay, whatever he wants to eat whenever he wants to eat, huge televisions and entertainment centers he doesn't have to buy games for, an electronic butler that can answer every question and get him whatever he wants, an invisible cleaning service so he doesn't even have to pick up after himself. He and Tasha investigate the cleaning people on their own; no attachment to Fury, reasonably clean backgrounds. They decide whenever possible private conversations will be held outside the Tower. Stark probably has every inch of the Tower bugged. It’s what they would do.

***

They train in a huge room Stark built for that activity. He’s impressed by Smug Steve’s shield. He’s less impressed Rogers won't let him use it. Stark Senior made it, Stark Junior says another one can't be made; some fucking excuse about not having any more of the metal. During the next exercise he nocks an arrow with Junior’s name on it.

_No shooting at teammates. Even if you plan on missing._

Shit. The voice of Coulson Past.

He lets the tension off on the string.

***

Fury calls them out for the most moronic reasons; most of them involve either Doombots or mutations. What the fuck is inside those idiot brains that believes releasing cockroaches the size of pup tents is a good idea? Aren't there already enough cockroaches in this fucking city? He dismembers one with an explosive arrow; marks the spot so he can get a leg or two to prank Stark.

_No frightening Stark._

Coulson is a dick.

***

After beating each other up under the guise of training comes the “bonding.” Bonding doesn't have anything to do with epoxy, although that might be preferable to board games. Who the hell plays board games? Stale Steve, that’s who. Tasha narrows her eyes. Fine. He’ll play.

He loses the first game.

_No throwing things at your teammates._

The next game he cheats. When Tasha catches him she joins in. By the end the game is so fucked up no one has any idea who is supposed to go next, where a third of the pieces are, how some of turn cards now instruct the player to give all their points to Clint or Natasha or to perform sexual acts, how some of the remaining pieces are now armed with tiny weapons crafted from the missing pieces.

At the point where everyone gives up, pissed at Clint, he’s laughing so hard he has tears running down his face. Even Nat has a tiny smile.

The others don't seem to be amused.

“Come on! It was a joke!”

Even Stark, who had been laughing at the beginning, wasn't smiling anymore.

“This is not the type of prank that supports team bonding,” Stodgy Steve proclaims and bans him from participating in the next game night.

Shit. He got lucky there. He uses _Sort Of Sorry But Not Really Because You’re_   _a_   _Fucking Idiot_ face--that one needs his shoulders.

In his living room--he has his own _living room-_ he runs idly through possibilities for payback. He doesn't object to being banned from the next game night--he considers it an unexpected reward--but Shithead Steve needs to be reminded who he’s dealing with.

Tash joins him, silently melting in from somewhere, searches through the movie menu and chooses one. The volume is high enough to give the illusion it's being watched.

He’s thinking. She cuddles up with him, their hands shielded from observation. They use their own language, a combination of Sign, morse code, their own taps and signals. Every once in a while he strokes her hair, and once he gets up and brings them glasses of iced tea. It isn’t ideal, but it would be out of character for them to disappear from the Tower at this time of night.

  _Coulson’s rules,_ he says, and gets an affirmative reply. Natasha has also been given rules, mostly involving weapons. A lot of rules involving weapons. Some of the rules have sub rules.

_No shooting at team._ He gets a yes. She got that one, too.

_No scaring anyone, especially Stark._ She doesn’t care what does or doesn’t involve Stark.

_No explosions. Nothing involving fire. No projectiles. No random punches just because_ _you feel like it._

_Wait,_ Natasha taps. _Back up._

_No projectiles?_

_Farther. Nothing involving fire._

She gets an irritated, running-low-on-patience pinch.

_No fire. No cold?_

He flips through his list. _No fire_ is on there, but _no cold_ is not.

Loopholes are fucking awesome.

***

For the next week Stick-up-his-ass Steve gets cold coffee, crushed ice in his shoes and slippers, in his costume gloves and helmet, ice cubes and ice water stealthily down his shirts--and in one glorious moment down his briefs--cold pillowcases, cold blankets, cold bath towels, his thermostat turned down, anything else they can think of.

JARVIS rats them out.

Serious Steve is not amused.

“It was a prank! You don't have any sense of humor.”

Everyone gets a mandatory inservice on what constitutes team bonding. There are a lot more examples of what _doesn't_ constitute team bonding, but it isn't Coulson so Clint doesn't care.


	5. Avenger Missions and Thoughts of Independence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wonders who thinks of the stupid stuff the Avengers have to deal with. He also wonders if staying with Avengers is his ideal long term plan.

The team is coming together. Sloppy Steve is better at monitoring who might be behind the bad guy/thing; the number of times he just misses a fellow teammate has decreased. The number of times Natasha tries to shock Stark’s suit is down. Stark is at least pretending he’s part of a team. Banner is still hiding somewhere, appearing as Hulk only when things need smashing. Clint is working on not jumping (falling) off so many buildings. Thor continues to electrocute at least one team member per fight, but at least the voltage is going down. What can you expect--the man wears a cape.

Like the double dealing bastard he is, now that the team is coming together Fury starts breaking them up to go on individual missions. After Clint has to be rescued from a nasty group of KKK supporters who decided skinning him would explain their ideology quicker, and Natasha has to crawl through a drainage ditch in some little jumped up country in Africa and finally makes it to the pick-up point with cracked ribs, broken fingers and a raging infection, the team starts to talk about deciding themselves who is and isn't needed on a mission.

Fury nearly has a stroke. Clint watches the big vein in Fury’s temple pulse and takes a piece of notepad paper. He knows he can fold it into a dart that could nail that fucking vein. His fingers are busy and _no projectiles_ appears highlighted in his mental list of rules, followed immediately by _no_ _shooting at your teammates._ He frowns. Does Fury count as a team member? He decides he isn’t sure. _Give people the benefit of the doubt. No one’s sole job is to irritate you._  

Damnit. 

He finishes the dart and puts it in a pocket; never know when something like that might come in handy.

***

Stark starts separating the Avengers from SHIELD. Fury’s skin is too dark to show what color he might be turning, but his teeth grinding is reaching epic levels. Stark peels Banner and Self-Important Steve away from SHIELD; Stark’s lawyers are scarily competent. Thor is technically a foreign prince and has some Asgard version of diplomatic immunity; Stark cheerfully states Thor’s floor is now the Asgard’s embassy and nips the Asgardian out from under Fury’s thumb. Clint and Natasha have contracts; no escaping SHIELD. But Stark negotiates moving the two of them from their cold, windowless, utilitarian quarters on the helicarrier to the floors already assigned to them in the Tower. They’d been staying there off and on, but now it was official. No more having to return to their crappy rooms; back to the luxury he knows he deserves. 

Missions. Stupid missions: containing the Pudding Pies of Doom--fed them to the mutated daisies coming from the other side of town, then used some organic weed killer shit to fry the daisies. Long missions: 3.5 days the record so far for in the city--some fucking basement gene twister had the bright idea to miniaturize killer bees and let them loose; there weren’t enough epi-pens in the world to handle the chaos. Filthy missions: tracking a group of wannabe terrorists with bombs through the sewers and out into the Hudson-- _no luring agents into shit and etc_ blinks in his head--agents are different than teammates so he keeps his laughter to himself when he accidently balances around a low part of a tunnel, being shorter comes in handy, and leaves Smelly Steve to drop his crouched body into the pothole of shit. Fucking frightening missions: far too many drugs, too much torture--both rescuing and being rescued, too many broken bones and concussions, too many kidnappings, too many heart stopping moments of fear/anger. He wonders why the hell he’s still part of this fucking amateur hour.

He pauses. It’s an interesting thought: why does he stick around with these morons?

He meets Natasha at their second favorite coffee house. Two plain  coffees and a box of donuts and Clint studies Tasha. Her hair is red again but cut just below her ears. He thinks he likes it.

“Why do you stay?” he asks bluntly.

Natasha doesn't pretend to not understand. She taps one finger on her lower lip. “Security,” she offers, taking a sip of her coffee. “JARVIS is the best safe house I’ve ever had.” She pushes a lock of hair behind one ear. “Steady salary.”

Clint nods agreement, sorting through the donuts to see if he can find one of his favorites. Natasha doesn't understand; he picked them out. Does he think by opening and closing the box new donuts will appear?

“SHIELD takes responsibility for backup on all but black op missions," she adds, "and there's the team.”

“Backup is good, but…” he opens the donut box again. He was sure he had asked for a bavarian cream; well, sort of bavarian and sort of cream.

She reaches over and puts a finger on the box lid. “But?”

“It’s crowded.”

She nods. She’s worked solo, too.

He sits back. He’ll have to buy the bavarian cream on the way out. “And there wasn’t any paperwork. Or schedules someone else made. And the pay was better.”

She thinks she knows where this is going but wants to hear him say it.

“I'm thinking this whole cooperation thing--”

“And rules…”

“And rules may have become stifling.”

She flicks open the donut box lid. He knows the consequences if he forgets her chocolate custard, but it was better she check before they left. “Your point?”

He points out her donut and closes the lid. “I’ve been thinking I might have more fun on my own again.”

“Or do both: take some individual contracts and stay with Fury.”

Clint considers. “We don’t get much time off. It’d be hard to coordinate solo work with SHIELD’s missions, and Avenger call outs are unpredictable.” He drinks the last of his coffee and motions to her cup when he stands to throw out his own.

“We’d need to set up safe houses, supplies, escape routes before we start. Best to do it while we have access to everything we need.”

 _We._ Clint smiles as he picks up the donut box. It’s what he was hoping to hear.

Part way down the block it occurs to him he forgot to buy himself the bavarian cream. Damn.

***

There are two betting pools he’s aware of. One is in SHIELD and the other is within the Avengers. Both are betting on the same actions:  when they show affection publicly, when they’re seen in their first kiss, when Natasha cuts his balls off for being too forward, which one moves into the other’s bedroom first.

They skillfully use the bets to cover for what they’re really doing. Clint has some safe houses and bolt holes that haven’t been compromised. Tasha, the better thief, takes the responsibility to set them up with medical supplies, money, food that won’t spoil, weapons for quick retrieval. “Date nights” are used to check farther from the city for possible places to go to ground, to temporarily fall off the grid. Individual errands outside the tower are used to locate and track new and old players in the game.

In the tower they play the part of new lovers: Clint moons, Natasha ignores him, Clint scowls, Natasha almost touches him. It’s a familiar dance. Both of them have had to be the seducer, the seduced, the facilitator between the mark and the agent. Clint has a hard time believing his team is so fucking oblivious; how can they not see through the play acting and call them on it?

One afternoon, during which Natasha had spurned his offering of tea and glided out of the room with her nose up, Sympathetic Steve pats him on the shoulder and and earnestly advises Clint to continue to pursue Natasha; sometimes the things most wanted have to be fought for.

Clint thanks him, barely gets to his bedroom before he starts laughing. He has to smother himself with a pillow to make sure no one hears him.


	6. Gumbo and Kansas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha are getting bored and annoyed with the whole team/SHIELD dynamic. Bored and annoyed assassins and ex-spys are bad news for everyone.

Missions continue. They chase more Doombots in New York City. Clint thinks it would make more sense to just shoot Reed Richards and hand him over to Dr. Doom.  In Lincoln, Nebraska all the snowmobiles are transformed into carnivorous snow monsters that chase after their owners and small, yappy dogs. In Tampa, Florida three alligators are supersized and have to be chased through part of the Everglades. Outside Raleigh, North Carolina they shut down a HYDRA lab making neurotoxin, but not before 12 civilians die. Sad Steve mourns all the way back to New York. Clint doesn’t know why. If you’re so fucking stupid as to hang around taking photos instead of running like you’re told, you damn well deserve to be removed from the gene pool.

***

“Give me a fucking good reason why we have to return to New York immediately.” Clint’s tired of New York City acting like a fucking bungee cord; the farther they go away, the faster they snap back.

“Language! We need to debrief and I’m sure Bruce will appreciate sleeping in a bed.”  Stalwart Steve is striding back to the quinjet, head high, chivving along the others like a principal rounding up children after recess.

“I know this jet is equipped with all the electronics necessary to contact SHIELD on a secure line. And I want gumbo. And a hotel.”

“We need to return to New York, Clint. There’s no time for gumbo.”

“There’s always time for gumbo,” _asshole._

“No. We need to get back. We’re taking off as soon as everyone is on board.”

“Gonna be a long wait, then, because I’m the pilot and I’m heading to gumbo.” Clint turns around and starts away. Why come to Louisiana and not have gumbo? Maybe some crawfish. Maybe not crawfish. He’s seen them and they look disgusting.

 Stupid Steve grabs him by the shoulder and turns Clint around. Only the long ingrained rule _no drawing weapons on your teammates no matter how much you think they deserve it_ saves Stupid Steve from a knife loose in its sheath. Less Stupid Steve holds his hands up and takes a step away.

Gumbo happens. Crawfish almost happens, but Clint decides they look worse up close than they do at a distance. Beer is good, Stark’s credit card even better. Stark rents an entire Bed and Breakfast for the night. Lafayette is excited to see them.

Spluttering Steve is left to explain to Fury where his team has gone.

Next morning they wander back to the quinjet, full of homemade croissants and jam, thinly sliced cheese, and local fruit. 

 “Good gumbo, Rogers. Too bad you missed it,” says Clint, _Not Really_ face firmly in place.

Snippy Steve is in a mood. Blah, blah, on a mission; Yadda, yadda pace two steps, blah, responsibility; blah, blah. Finger pointed in Clint’s direction. Yadda.

Clint recognizes Steve’s tone. This can go on forever. 

The quinjet on automatic pilot, he turns around in the pilot’s seat to see how the rest of the team is taking the Captain America Lecture of the Day.  Stark has the Iron Man helmet on--doubtful he’s paying attention. Banner is asleep on Thor again. Thor is listening attentively. In the co-pilot’s seat Natasha is inspecting her fingernails. 

Clint turns back to the console; switches on the accessibility package Stark installed. Hearing aids off, he scans the console for warning lights and checks the open caption display is tuned to the nearest tower.

He and Natasha spend the rest of the flight discussing in Sign contacts made, players who might be interesting, an old bolt hole, medical professionals rumored or known to work in a gray practice.

Natasha needs more medical supplies but doesn't want to keep taking them from SHIELD. She doesn’t care much for the look of crawfish but tries to convince him they taste much better than they appear.

Almost an hour into the flight Natasha reports delightedly Thor told Rogers “enough” and Rogers is now stewing in his seat.

Clint is sure crawfish have to taste better than they look, there’s nowhere to go but up for the ugly things, but he still isn’t interested in trying them.

Back at base Fury is nuclear; “motherfucking” is used liberally as both a descriptor and punctuation. 

Clint wonders if he should have brought back some gumbo. Maybe crawfish. He runs quickly through Coulson's rules about food. There isn't anything about feeding apoplectic directors. He's off the hook.

***

They’re in Kansas. It nearly breaks his heart to have to leave behind the bow and quiver Stark made. They both agree it’s too likely to be bugged. It's what they would do. Clint leaves a note-- _So_ _long and thanks for all the fish.*_  Natasha has a hand held metal detector and they patiently scan every item they brought to check for trackers, discarding the marked items among the homeless, dropped in rivers, mailed to post offices. What is tolerable in the field is no longer desirable. Clint puts one shoe from each of them on a Greyhound bus to Detroit. It doesn’t take long for them to replace all their clothes and other possessions with brand new off the shelf items.

SHIELD wants them back.

Too fucking bad. 

***

From SHIELD a string of confirmation, to a thread of possibility, to a filament of rumor, to a micro-thin line of bare thought; a hint of a breath in the wind. _Hawkeye is back. The Black Widow is available._

They take jobs that interest them; sometimes together, sometimes solo. Keep a loose watch on the Avengers and SHIELD; torment SHIELD field agents with smoke bombs, firecrackers, items dropped on their heads, flat tires, missing starters, whatever amuses them at the time. They occasionally help the Avengers if they happen to cross paths. They delight in appearing and disappearing around their former teammates. Stark’s rants are masterpieces of invective and threats.

Coulson’s rules fade.

 ***

After having the word thrown at him numerous times, Clint looks up “psychopath.”  He’s surprised at the number of behaviors listed: a lack of feelings for others and a lack of guilt, lack of a conscience, charming behavior to manipulate others, selfishness, ability to blend in, as well as others. He disputes the lack of empathy because he does like Tasha; it’s everyone else he isn’t interested in. _He_ considers the points listed as _positives._ Turning his world view 90° and invoking the Ghost of Coulson Past he can almost see why society in general may consider the behaviors as not socially appropriate. He thinks the name callers have a narrow point of view. Of course they’re all dead now, so it's not like it matters.

***

Tasha is double crossed. They go to a gray practice to get her ankle set; he handles the stitches and concussion checks. After he nurses her to the point where she can take care of herself he tracks down the person who offered the contract. After playing a rousing game of how close to minions can he shoot without touching one, he kills them all and leaves the leader with an arrow through the eye. _Don’t fuck with me._

Clint is injured when details are out of date and he finds himself trapped between two rival gangs. Natasha sets his broken arm and wraps his cracked ribs; takes care of the stitches and fever. She nurses him until it's safe to leave him alone for awhile. It’s easy to find the people who hurt him; they’ve been hanging around, waiting for confirmation. She plays tag with them, and when the minions are dead she kills the person in charge with a kitchen knife in the eye. _You’re so insignificant_   _I_   _can’t be bothered to use_   _a_   _real knife on you._ A bread knife in the eye becomes her calling card. _Don’t fuck with me._

They wander up to Canada, down to Mexico, over to South America; sometimes for work, sometimes for play. They mail dancing hula dolls, obscenely carved coconuts, little donkeys made from cowhide and wearing various local decorations, a set of cardboard coasters stamped with red maple leaves, a tiny block of limburger cheese, crude postcards, to Fury. They wish they could see his face when the packages clear the mail check. They have reliable information he’s named all the donkeys “motherfucker.”

***

There’s a war between drug lords. One side hires Clint, the other hires Natasha. Each side wants the other dead. Nat and Clint don't mind being on opposites sides, they're scrupulous about not sharing information; neither side deserves to live and it's easy enough to keep watch on each other.

They snipe, rig explosions, cut throats, indulge in a little arson amid other population reducers, when Clint’s side loses too many foot soldiers and agrees to a meet. Neutral ground becomes a bloodbath when a third group shows up--high power guns, flash bangs and grenades used liberally. Clint and Natasha slip out of the conflict before attention is called to them.

They spend the next week studying the new player. They trail people who should know better, watch them from rafters and roofs, eavesdrop at windows. They hear the man brag how he personally killed the archer and the ex-spy.

Clint and Natasha bide their time. A rumor is dropped there, a hint into an ear, a guard disappears to be found dead in a fountain two days later, a broken arrow, an elastic hair band, a possible address; business is stymied. Refusing all advice the drug lord takes a group of his best men to storm off and check out a small, neatly maintained warehouse, where he finds his product carefully stored. Nat plays tag, Clint plays how close he can shoot an arrow without touching a minion. Eventually they get bored and kill all the foot soldiers.

When the drug lord stands alone, shivering, begging, offering percentage points of his business, Natasha throws a bread knife into one eye and Clint shoots an arrow through the other.

_Don't fuck with us._

_***_

_For want of a nail a shoe was lost._

_For want of a shoe the horse was lost._

_For want of a horse the courier was lost._

_For want of a courier the battle was lost._

_For want of a battle the kingdom was lost;_

_And all for the want of a nail._

* * *

 

*Douglas Adams

 


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